


gloria ad caesarem imperatorem

by thisisthefamilybusiness



Series: gloria [1]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Abuse, Ancient History, Backstory, Caesar's Legion, Canon-Typical Behavior, Canon-Typical Legion Sexism, Canon-Typical Violence, Consent Issues, Domestic Violence, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/F, F/M, I wrote so much lore for this, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Mild Sexual Content, Misogyny, Mojave Wasteland (Fallout), Original Character Death(s), Past Sexual Assault, Pre-Canon, Pre-Fallout: New Vegas, Roman Myths, Sexual Slavery, Slavery, Verbal Abuse, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:28:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22429366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisisthefamilybusiness/pseuds/thisisthefamilybusiness
Summary: Severina could read, years ago. She’d read a book about a long-gone country and a rich woman who said, centuries ago, to just lie back and think of England when her husband tried to touch her. She can’t remember what she thought of the quote back then, but now it’s become a what that she tells every new woman in Caesar’s harem. Just close your eyes and imagine you’re somewhere else, that you’re someone else, that he’s someone else. There are degradations that Severina endures when no other wife could or would that ensure her place among the Augusta Maritae. There’s nothing left in her that Caesar hasn’t already stolen from her. She might as well protect what remains of the other wives. She thinks of how to keep them all alive, of how to shield them from the worst of Caesar.Now, though, all she thinks about is Atia and her garden, about Atia’s smile and her kiss and her laughter.(Two women fall in love in the desert. It would almost be romantic, if it happened to anyone but two of Caesar's concubines.)
Relationships: Caesar (Fallout)/Original Female Character(s), Joshua Graham/Original Female Character(s), Lanius (Fallout)/Original Female Character(s), Original Female Character/Original Female Character
Series: gloria [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1691236
Comments: 2
Kudos: 35





	1. vere et aestas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PomoneCorse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PomoneCorse/gifts).



> Click to the end notes for an explanation on the content warnings.
> 
> Q: why is there so much latin in here? why is the latin so bad?  
> A: because I taught myself rudimentary latin for the purposes of this fic and I decided if I, with all the resources of the internet, could only manage latin this mediocre, then there’s no way some chucklefuck SPQR nerd in a radioactive desert could do any better.

_ Martius _

“My people say that happiness is something we make for ourselves,” Atia whispers, pouring water over the dry soil of the courtyard on Palatine Hill. “Even in sorrow, we can make happiness.”

It’s ridiculous, as ridiculous as planting two hundred year old seeds in the desert dust and expecting to grow a garden, but Atia smiles up at Severina and for a minute, it almost makes sense. Not even the Legion could break Atia’s hope. Severina swallows compulsively and drops the seeds she’s holding into the little hole Atia dug, then sweeps dirt over the opening. The windows from the palace that look into the courtyard are all firmly boarded up, at least, so nobody else can hear the conversation. Slaves are still working on the last portions of Palatine Hill, including replacing all the boarded-up windows. It will be another year before the pre-war buildings of the University of Flagstaff are transformed enough for Caesar to consecrate them as his first capital. 

“You believe in something,” Severina says, trying to force some authority into her voice, distracting her mind with the timetable of Palatine Hill’s construction, “even when it’s impossible. That will ruin you.” This world is not meant for kindness and hope, for women like Atia, and it will suffocate it out of her. Severina picks at the dirt under her nails in a weak attempt at nonchalance. 

“Has believing in nothing made your own ruins any easier to bear?” Atia keeps her gaze turned at her work. 

Severina freezes, a knot forming in her throat. Instinctively, she wants to snap back that it’s all that kept her alive since she was barely more than a girl, but--

“My happiness is small in a world of sorrow. But it is what keeps me.” There’s pain in Atia’s voice, and Severina suddenly wishes she knew how to comfort someone, that her own kindness hadn’t been taken from her. “One day...” Atia reaches out, smearing dust over Severina’s palla, smiling. “One day, I hope you find your small happiness.” 

* * *

In another life, Severina might have been beautiful: a sharp jawline, warm golden-amber skin, a strong nose, curly dark hair. In this one, the bottom of her left cheekbone is distorted by swelling and a bruise so dark it’s nearly navy blue at the center. Her nose is crooked from a break that never was set properly, and a tiny scar twists the right corner of her lip up permanently. What beauty she had left her years ago, somewhere in the smoldering ruins of Mesa when a man named Edward Sallow took her birth name and her childhood from her.

She might not have much left for vanity, but Severina still takes her time getting ready for the day. She spends long minutes adjusting the fibulae that pin the shoulders of her red stola together, then tying and retying the waist ribbon that shape the folds. This is one of the only times when Severina is completely alone, without even slaves at her side. For the past seven years, it has been the only privacy she truly has. 

Severina shares these moments sometimes with Atia, who stumbles into Severina’s bedroom from her own room well before the sun rises. Atia’s got dark smudges under her eyes from waking up so early, but she still smiles as she takes a seat on the long sofa across from Severina’s dressing table. The small former dormitory rooms they’re all sleeping in are only temporary, until the rest of the palace is done, but Severina’s still taken the time to arrange her furniture the way she likes it, with her dressing table and a sofa hidden from the view of the rest of the room. 

“You’re good at that,” Atia says with a giggle, watching Severina tap liquid rouge over her cheekbones with her fingertips. 

“I take care of every item in Caesar’s household. That includes myself.” Severina always liked makeup, even before Edward Sallow, red lipstick and cheap floral-scented face powders. The products may be different now, distilled from oils and crushed roots and talc powder, but the concept remains the same. 

Atia shuffles forward, pressing her chin into Severina’s shoulder. Atia’s still in her thin nightgown, her soft blonde hair falling from its braid, tickling the side of Severina’s face. “You do fine work of it.” She smiles as she plucks a comb from the dressing table. “Let me help, will you?” 

Severina meets Atia’s gaze in the mirror as she nods. “Fine,” she murmurs, and relaxes into Atia’s touch.

* * *

_Aprilius_

The garden is growing. Not by much, but there’s a few green sprouts sticking up from the soil, poking their tendrils out. In the moonlight, it looks more dramatic than Severina knows it must really be, but it still makes her breath pause for the barest fraction of a second. Atia wraps her arms around Severina’s shoulders and laughs, face flushed with too much wine from the banquet. 

“I told you, Severina,” she teases, her veil slipping down around her neck. “A seed is a seed. Small, old, doesn’t matter.” Her face is so close to Severina’s, close enough that Severina can smell honey on her breath and the heavy floral oils of her perfume. Something in Severina’s chest twists. 

“We should go back,” Severina says, without meaning a single word of it. Caesar will notice two of his wives missing soon enough, no matter how much wine he’s had. 

Atia giggles and reaches with one dark hand to push Severina’s veil off, tangling her fingers in Severina’s black hair. “But you were wrong. Even the smallest things can grow in the worst places.” 

Severina closes her eyes and before she can think too much on it, slides her hands around Atia’s hips, feeling the warmth of her skin through the linen of her stola. “It doesn’t mean anything,” she whispers. 

“It does if you believe it does.” Atia presses her cheek to Severina’s with a small sigh. “Don’t you understand?” 

There is a second where Severina considers what she should do: push Atia away, drag her back to the table where they were supposed to be entertaining Caesar and his newest officers, bury this memory under five more glasses of wine. 

Instead, Severina presses their lips together. Her lips are soft, slick with her red lip salve, and Severina shifts Atia closer, until she’s holding her as close as possible. For just a moment, Severina doesn’t think about anything except what’s happening right now. 

When Atia pulls away to press her forehead against Severina’s, she grins. “Happiness in sorrow. See, Esperanza?” whispers Atia. 

Severina’s stomach turns and she lets go, tugging free from Atia’s arms and straightening her clothes. “Stop.” She pulls her palla back up with shaking hands. 

Atia laughs again, still smiling, still happy, still pink-cheeked with wine. “Do you run away from everything that makes you happy?” 

Severina’s face burns with anger as regret curdles in her core. “You never know when to shut up, do you?” There’s more venom in her tone than she intended. “And don’t ever call me that name again.” 

Atia’s face falls and her posture stiffens. “I just want--”

“Don’t you understand?” Severina turns back to the villa’s entrance. “It doesn’t matter what you want.”

* * *

It’s not an apology. Severina can’t be sorry for something that needed to be done, but it’s a truce, disguised as a gift: a pair of golden floral pins for the shoulders of Atia’s stola, from Severina’s personal jewelry collection. 

“Two weeks is too long,” Atia sighs, holding her hair off her shoulders so Severina can pin the brooches into place. “Next time, make your realization come sooner.” She’s smiling again, for the first time that Severina can remember since the courtyard. Atia presses a soft kiss to Severina’s cheek, leaving a smear of lip tint. She giggles as she wipes it away. 

“There’s no point in ignoring suffering.” Severina catches Atia’s hand in one of her own before the other woman can pull it away from her face. She kisses the back of Atia’s hand. 

“I’m not ignoring it. If I focus on suffering, then I forget what happiness is. If I look at an old seed, and I only focus on how it will never grow, I forget the chance that it will bloom.” Atia gently pulls her hand back. “You forgot what happiness is.”

“I never knew what it was.” Severina presses her own fingertips to the purpling bruise covering her cheekbone, barely concealed by the powders she packed on over it. “I was seventeen.” She doesn’t need to finish the sentence to illustrate the rest of the story. The Legion, Caesar, this was the only life Severina had known since she was little more than a child. 

Atia doesn’t offer an apology or pity, which Severina is grateful for. Instead, she pulls Severina in for a hug. “Have you seen my garden this week?” she asks. 

“No.” Severina buries her face in Atia’s shoulder for a moment, taking in the soft scent of her perfume and soft soap. 

“It’s starting to flower. Soon it’ll be a real garden.” Atia’s hands stroke up and down Severina’s back soothingly. “It’ll be a real garden, and you’ll see what joy means then.” 

* * *

_Maius_

Severina could read, years ago. She’d read a book about a long-gone country and a rich woman who said, centuries ago, to just lie back and think of England when her husband tried to touch her. She can’t remember what she thought of the quote back then, but now it’s become a what that she tells every new woman in Caesar’s harem. Just close your eyes and imagine you’re somewhere else, that you’re someone else, that he’s someone else. 

There are degradations that Severina endures when no other wife could or would that ensure her place. For a few years now, Severina has thought of the other wives in the harem as she closes her eyes. If she lets Caesar work out his brutality on her, he is gentler with the other wives, less violent. There’s nothing left in her that Caesar hasn’t already stolen from her. She might as well protect what remains of the other wives. She thinks of how to keep them all alive, of how to shield them from the worst of Caesar. 

Now, though, all she thinks about is Atia and her garden, about Atia’s smile and her kiss and her laughter. The pale purple flowers with their bright yellow centers in her garden, blooming strong despite the desert sand and heat. Severina knows this is a dangerous pattern. She knows that nothing good can come from whatever stunted relationship they’ve sinking into. 

She also knows this is the closest to comfort she’s had in years. Knowing that Atia is waiting for Severina in her room makes it almost tolerable to pick herself up off Caesar’s chambers’ floor with what little remains of her dignity. Atia is there with salve for the bruises and her warm smile, every time, like a single moment of happiness in the abyss that Severina’s life has been since she met Edward Sallow, like a flower in the desert.

“I love you, Esperanza,” Atia murmurs. She tucks her chin into Severina’s shoulder, presses a kiss to the nape of her neck. The garden is cold at night, and Atia is a bright spot of warmth at Severina’s back.

Severina closes her eyes as her stomach lurches with shame. There are things she should say.  _ That isn’t my name, _ and _ we can’t do this.  _ Her body shakes as she exhales. “Radana,” she says instead. 

Atia goes still. “How did you--”

“It doesn’t matter.” Names have power. Caesar knew that much, which is why he went to such lengths to make sure every member of his Legion was given a new one. Before Atia was  _ Atia _ , she had been  _ Radana _ , from a tribe in the Utah’s southernmost reaches. “I didn’t want you to be erased,” Severina says. “Not like I was.” 

Atia is silent, but Severina can feel her tears burning hot against her neck. For a long, long few minutes, there is only the two of them and their own tears in this quiet desert garden. Severina just wishes it could last forever.

* * *

In her time with the Legion, Severina has seen plenty of monsters wearing human faces. The Malpais Legate, Caesar himself, the head of the Frumentarii: the list goes on and on. None chill her in quite the way that the Legate Lanius does. 

The Legion offers many outlets for the cruelty of men, with war being the least of them. What a master does to his slaves, or a husband to his wife, or a soldier to a prostitute in a lupanar is his own private business, and nothing Caesar sees fit to intrude on as long as it is kept within the proper spaces. Every behavior has its place. Beating a slave in public is forbidden, but what a man does to the same slave within the walls of his own house doesn’t matter. 

For reasons Severina can’t understand, this rule does not apply to Legate Lanius. Even at dinner on Palatine Hill with Caesar seated to his left, the Legate acts the same as Severina would assume he does on the battlefield, even wearing his heavy golden helmet. He twists his head at Severina as she pours wine for Caesar like a nightstalker ready to go in for the kill, and it is only through her years of experience that she isn’t outwardly unsettled by it. 

“Were you young, the first time he fucked you?” Lanius finally says, grabbing Severina’s forearm roughly as she goes to set the wine bottle down. 

Severina keeps her face neutral as she looks across the table at the Legate, glad she’s the only wife Caesar will dine with. “Caesar Imperator is the only man I’ve ever served.” It’s not the first time Severina has been mocked by another legionary, but it is the first time any of them have been bold enough to do with Caesar sitting next to them. 

Lanius laughs even as his grip around Severina’s arm tightens. “I wonder what you do that makes keeping an old woman around worth it. Do you scream when--”

“Enough, Lanius,” Caesar barks out. 

The Legate lets go of Severina, but he tilts his head back and laughs. The sound is tinny, twisted by the metal of his helm. “You must be good at it.” He turns to Caesar with a leer. “You should let me try.” 

“All the women in my Legion and it’s her you want?” Caesar stares at Severina with a look that she knows means he’s in a foul mood.

“How many men can say they fucked the first wife of Caesar? You have a dozen women in your harem, but it’s only this one you have dinner with.” Lanius picks up his fork and knife, then cuts off a piece of his steak with more violence than necessary, shoving it under the helm. “How good must she be?” 

“The best,” Severina says. She smiles serenely at Lanius as she takes a sip from her wine glass. “I work to keep my place at the side of Caesar Imperator. I take pride in it.” 

“The next battle I win,” Lanius says, turning to Caesar, “she is the only reward I want. One night.” 

Severina’s mask of calm almost shatters when Caesar leans back in his chair and nods. “The next two battles,” he amends. 

“ _ Gloria ad Caesarem Imperatorem. _ ” He raises his wine glass for a toast. 

_ “Gloria ad Caesarem Imperatorem, _ ” Severina repeats, raising her glass. “ _ In hoc signo taurus vinces. _ ” 

* * *

_Iunius_

The courtyard at Palatine Hill is stiflingly hot in summer time, but Atia’s garden still blooms with flowers. They’re yellow now, desert poppies. The petals are soft when Severina runs her fingertips along their centers, sitting beside the little garden plot on the hot sand. 

“He didn’t do this to you,” Atia murmurs, voice choked with tears, as she brushes her hand over the swollen line of Severina’s jaw. “Not Caesar, someone else--”

“Why does it matter who did it?” Severina pulls away from Atia’s touch and closes her eyes. She’s survived worse before, and she’ll survive this too. “It was done. There’s no point in crying about it.” 

Atia sits back on her heels as she takes a shaky breath. “If you tell me what--”

“Would you like that, Atia? Do you want to hear every sad detail of this sad, sad story? I can cry if you’d like, I’m good at fake tears. One of my best talents,” Severina snaps. “I can--”

“Stop,” Atia interrupts. She shakes her head. “I want you to let me help. That’s all I want. It’s all I have ever wanted from you, but you.... You live in sorrow. That’s all you let yourself know. I try and I try to show you how to find even small happiness, but you pick your sorrow every time.” 

“You think I choose to be miserable? That I wouldn’t change this if I had a chance?” 

“When a hunter comes home on a winter night, he knows the next morning he will have to go back outside. He knows it will be just as cold and bitter as it is right now, and it will be hard to leave his home with its fire, and it will be hard to adjust his body to the cold again. Maybe he thinks it’s easier to stay in the cold, so he never has to deal with coming back outside again, but the cold will kill him. It will chill his blood, it will eat at his skin until it turns gray.” Atia leans back in, cupping Severina’s face in her hands, mindful of her bruises and fractured bones. “You had no home in the winter of your life. Now you think if you come inside, the pain of leaving will never match the comfort of a home. But isn’t the pain of being in the cold forever worse?”

Severina’s face burns with her tears, her right eye too swollen to blink them away. “I stay to protect you all, don’t you understand?” She rises to her feet on unsteady legs. “I take everything so nobody else--not you, not Livia, not Eirene, nobody--will have to. I let him beat me and I let his officers rape me because if I don’t, he’ll take it out on you. Do you think I like the person I am, Radana? Do you think I wouldn’t come home to you in--in whatever cold winter you’re talking about if I could?

“But how else can I live with this? With everything that’s happened to me, with the person I’ve become? How am I supposed to live if I have feelings about every little fucking thing?” Severina lets out a sob and feels her body shake with the sound. “I love you. I love you, and it is the worst thing that has ever happened to me. For the first time in my life, I want to be Esperanza again. I want to be anything except what I am. I want Esperanza to be with Radana but I have nothing. I have  _ nothing _ .” 

“I’m sorry,” Atia whispers. She looks so broken, sitting in the dust of her tiny garden. “If I had known--”

“It wouldn’t have mattered.” Severina wipes at her tears with the back of her hand. “This is my burden.” 

Atia grabs her hand. “Can I... Let me walk you to your room, Severina,” she says. 

With what little dignity and confidence Severina has left, she nods, and lets Atia guide her back into the villa.

* * *

_Quintilis_

The dining room in Palatine Hill is nearly overflowing with Caesar’s favorites of the newest class of officers: twenty young men, both of Caesar’s Legates, and Caesar himself, along with all twelve of Caesar’s wives mixed in amongst them. Severina’s in Caesar’s lap, one arm tossed over his shoulders, smiling and making sure his wine glass never drops below half-full. He’s in what passes for a good mood and she isn’t willing to risk ruining it just because she failed to keep him the right amount of drunk. 

A meal with the company of the Augustae Maritae, served with all the wine you could drink and the best food the Legion had to offer, is one of the rewards Caesar likes to tease his new officers with: a promise that with hard work, discipline, and the blessings of Mars, you might one day sit at this table for a private meal with Caesar Imperator, your own wife in attendance at your side. 

Atia’s across the long wooden table from Severina, between Legate Lanius (his mask still on, Severina notes) and one of the new Frumentarii. She’s let her palla slip down to her neck, baring the braided twist she pulled her deep blonde hair into. It’s a calculated move. The Augustae Maritae are exclusively Caesar’s, not lupae who can be bought for the right amount, but the banquets are about making new men _ want _ . That there’s a rumor that with enough rank, enough victory, not even the Augustae are  _ truly _ off-limits makes the tease all the more poignant. Atia plays well at being the innocent wife, unaware of innuendo or the way the men closest to her are looking at her. Severina would have believed it, had she not been the one teach Atia that trick. 

“Do you often mourn being replaced by something younger and fresher?” The wine makes everyone bolder, especially those who haven’t had alcohol in years. It’s Praetor Pullo, the newest member of the Praetorian Guard. He’s smirking, thinking he’s caught Severina eyeing Atia in jealousy.

“I celebrate whenever Caesar Imperator blesses me with another sister.” Severina drapes her hand over Caesar’s on her own hip with a smile. “It’s an honor to share the love of Divus Mars.” 

“Severina Augusta is modest, but she’s the best of us all,” Atia says. Severina’s composure nearly slips in surprise, but Atia just blinks coquettishly. “It would be a blessing from Mars to be even half of the wife that she is.” 

“Don’t let age fool you, Praetor Pullo. I’m sure there’s sixteen year olds in lupanaria who couldn’t suck a cock worth two denarii, and better an old wife than a young lupa.” Atia nearly chokes on her wine the second she processes what Severina has said, but the men are too busy laughing at Pullo to notice. 

Caesar laughs too, cupping at Severina’s breast over her palla. “ _ Felix bene crisas. _ ” 

“I never noticed a difference between ages.” Lanius’s eyes meet Severina’s across the table. “I’ve had women of all sorts. As long as there’s some fight in them, that’s what matters.” 

“You’re a new officer, Pullo, who would you have for a wife?” Atia giggles and tilts her head towards Pullo, trying to defuse the tension building as she pours more wine. 

“Eirene Augusta,” Pullo says. Eirene waves at him with a smile from her place further down the table. “That’s a girl any man would be happy to have, nice and soft like that. Caesar Imperator is a man of good taste.” 

Severina fakes a laugh, but she never looks away from Lanius. The mask’s blank expression reflects off the candlelight and she wishes she could see beneath it, to read what he might be thinking as he turns to stare at Atia. 

“More wine, Severina,” Caesar chides, tapping at his glass on the table. 

“Of course,” she murmurs as she reaches for the bottle. “However I can serve you, Caesar Imperator.” 

* * *

Severina’s bedroom is cluttered with the latest gifts from Caesar, spread out on the large bed: a few pieces of jewelry, a bolt of crimson red silk fabric, a beautiful jar of cut-crystal for face powder. Severina herself is sprawled on a sofa at the end of the bed, sipping at a glass of wine and watching Atia try the jewelry on. 

“It doesn’t look bad?” Atia asks. She adjusts the necklace’s chain over her neck and drags her fingers over the snake-shaped pendant that hangs between her bare breasts. She tilts her chest up towards the hand mirror she holds. 

Severina hums and stares appreciatively. “It’s the most beautiful necklace I’ve ever seen.”

Atia laughs and rolls off the bed, sauntering to stand in front of Severina on the sofa. “I think you would say it was beautiful even if it wasn’t, just to keep me here.” She folds her hands together and presses her elbows in, pushing her breasts out and the pendant between them. 

Severina sits up, one hand reaching for Atia’s hip while she presses a row of kisses from the pendant’s glittering crystal eye down to the soft pink skin where Atia’s breast met her nipple. “Would that be so bad?” she whispers. She looks up at Atia through her dark lashes. 

Of course, Atia is flushing pink. She catches her lower lip between her teeth. “You could convince me, I think.” Atia threads her fingers through Severina’s dark curls gently. Severina pushes Atia’s hands apart before she kisses down Atia’s sternum to her belly button and slides down to her knees. 

“That’s a start,” sighs Atia, guiding Severina’s mouth between her thighs. “A good one.” 


	2. Chapter 2

_ September _

The battle for Ancient Canyon is a runaway victory for the Legion. Ten tribes have fallen. The spoils are expected to arrive in Flagstaff in twelve days, along with most of the victors: most of the units, Legate Lanius, and Caesar himself. It has been a long string of months for Severina, travelling back and forth between Flagstaff and the northwestern reaches of the Legion’s empire with the other wives on Caesar’s whims, but they’ve been settled back in Palatine Hill for a month now. There’s a banquet for her to plan, a triumph for the Temple of Mars to commemorate. 

Legatus Diomedes, the Malpais Legate, has spent the entire campaign in Flagstaff. Severina can see how the man rankles at being confined to the boring humdrum of politics, trapped in the temporary governorship that Caesar granted him. For as long as Severina has known Diomedes, he was never fully comfortable with the daily life of the Legion. His wives tell Severina as much, sitting in the courtyard at Palatine Hill over lunch, Atia’s garden blooming in the background of their meal. 

“I tell you, Severina, I’ve never seen the man so frustrated,” Placida says. She shaves a slice off a mutfruit with a small knife angrily. “I’ve been with him six years and he’s never been like this. He’s always.... Somewhat bothered, you know, but not like this. ” 

Severina nods as she gestures for a slave to refill their water glasses. “More or less aggressive in bed?” 

“If he would come to bed, he wouldn’t be so frustrated.” Laurentia rolls her eyes. She’s the newer of Diomedes’ two wives, a gift from Caesar himself: a slender, pallid girl of maybe nineteen or so, by Severina’s guess. “You’ve known him forever, Severina, what do you think?”

In the dirt yard of a burned-out Mesa building, Esperanza watched through her tears as Joshua Graham turned his back and walked away even as she cried while Edward Sallow pushed her face into the ground. 

“He’s a scholar, not a politician.” Severina nibbles at a pastry with no real interest. “Talk to him. You take dinner with him, make conversation, ask about philosophy. Men like being listened to.” They rarely cared about listening, men like Diomedes: _ stop crying, you just make it worse for yourself. _

“Does it ever get easier?” Laurentia asks. 

Placida and Severina’s eyes meet across the white-painted table. Though Placida came to the Legion ten months after Severina, she’s the second-longest surviving of all the Legion’s wives. “I love my husband,” Severina says, turning to face Laurentia rather than let Placida see the play of emotions over her own face. “I’m sure you’ll learn to love yours as well.” 

* * *

“If he chooses me?” Atia breathes, letting Severina run her fingers along the soft skin at her innermost thigh. 

“He won’t,” Severina whispers into the shell of Atia’s ear. She rubs teasingly at Atia’s clit through her underwear before she pulls her hand away. “The Legate has certain tastes, and one of those tastes is seeing how far he can push Caesar. He’ll ask for me again.” 

Atia sighs and relaxes into Severina’s touch as she pulls the soft linen under-tunic over Atia’s head. “Do you do this for every wife after a triumph, or am I special?” Atia pulls her fair hair back into a ponytail with a fist, so Severina can drape her red stola over her shoulders.

“You know the answer already.” Severina pins the stola into place, then reaches for the narrow length of red linen that will hold Atia’s stola in place around her waist. She brushes her lips against the nape of Atia’s neck. Atia smells fresh, like the summer blooms from her garden though it’s now well into September: the perfume that Atia had crafted, patiently crushing fresh flower petals and stirring them into warm oil. It had taken her days, but Atia was proud. 

Atia laughs. Her green eyes crinkle at the outer corners and Severina feels her heart nearly skip a beat. All of Caesar’s wives are beautiful, of course, but to Severina, Atia is the most beautiful of them all. “I love you,” Atia murmurs, twisting in Severina’s arms to kiss her deeply. 

Severina pulls back with a soft gasp. “I love you too.” And, for the first time in years, something inside of Severina begins to bloom.

* * *

There are ten women currently bearing the title of  _ Augusta Marita _ : Severina, Claudia, Livia, Iulia, Petra, Sabina, Decima, Servilia, Atia, and Eirene. At times, there’s been as many as sixteen and as few as two. The title started as simply Caesar’s way of justifying his own harem, but it holds a small amount of weight now: these women were married to a god in flesh, responsible for his household and his needs. It’s a position of honor, as much honor as the Legion spared for its women. 

“Go on, take your pick.” Caesar settles one hand under his own chin and the other over the armrest of his heavy wooden throne, legs spread wide. He gestures with the hand on his armrest at his wives, all ten of them kneeling in a row at the edge of the dais in his throne room. 

Lanius is still in his leather armor, mask reflecting the candlelight, like he walked directly into Palatine Hill from the battlefield. “This is a rare honor, Imperator. I would not want to let it go to waste.” 

Severina shivers. She knew this would be part of the triumph, but it made it no easier to feel the Legate’s eyes sliding over her as he paced in front of them like an officer inspecting his unit. She can hear Sabina trying not to cry as Lanius stops in front of her, grabbing roughly at the shoulder of Sabina’s stola until it falls open and her chest is bared. Lanius grunts and pushes her back, clearly displeased. 

“How old are you?” Lanius asks. He pauses again, in front of Atia from what Severina can see from the corner of her eye. 

“Twenty, Legatus,” Atia says. She keeps her head tilted downwards. 

Lanius laughs and pushes Atia’s palla down so he can tug at her hair. “A few years left in you, then.” He stares down at her appraisingly, but Atia doesn’t flinch. Severina feels a split-second of pride at how well Atia is doing. “This one for my wife, if you would be so generous, Imperator.”

Severina’s facade cracks. “What?” The word leaves her mouth before she can think about it. Her subservient stance vanishes as she straightens her posture. 

“This doesn’t concern you.” Caesar’s tone holds an unspoken threat: be quiet.

“Didn’t you hear, Severina Augusta? My reward for Grand Mesa is a wife, picked from Caesar’s personal spoils. Not just for a night. Forever.” Lanius tilts his head as he stares down at Severina through his helm. “And this is the one I want.” He wraps his gloved hand into Atia’s hair, uncaring as Atia winces. 

“Take me instead,” Severina says, shuffling toward Lanius on hands and knees. “This is about power, isn’t it? Think of how it’ll look if the first wife of Caesar becomes the first wife of his Legate.” Desperation sends her heart pounding. Her entire body shakes as she stands. “I know the truth about you, too, I’ll tell everyone. I’ll tell everyone about what you really are.” There are secrets only Severina knows, that she’s kept to herself for years, things about the Legion and its members that would ruin it. 

For a brief second, Severina is the bravest she’s ever been. She is the woman she might have been if Edward Sallow never rode into Mesa. 

Caesar’s heel slams into the back of Severina’s knees, dropping her to the ground. The sole of his boot presses Severina’s cheek to the cold concrete of his half-finished throne room. “Don’t be fucking pathetic.” 

Severina’s head spins from the blow. She’s dimly aware that she’s bleeding on her face somewhere, the warm copper taste of blood leaking into her mouth. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she babbles. “Please, don’t, I’m sorry.”

This is the end of her. She knows it, she’s seen Caesar kill women for smaller infractions before. He leans more weight into the foot on her face. It feels like Severina is a teenager again and the black and white tile floor are the ashes of her childhood home, like she’s watching herself in a mirror across the years as she always, always finds herself trapped like this. 

“If you want her still, she’s yours.” Caesar’s voice, though Severina can barely hear over the ringing in her ears. There’s a sound like screaming, and Severina can see as Atia is hauled towards the door of the room by her hair. 

“I’m sorry,” Severina repeats, hoping that Atia can hear her. “I’m sorry.”

* * *

Severina can’t leave bed for eight days. The slave physician looks horrified when Caesar finally allows him to check Severina over on the second day; she gets a total of fifteen stitches, between her face and the internal tearing. There will be a new scar on her upper lip, a deep divot in her left cheekbone, a thin slice between her hairline and forehead. One of her molars on her bottom jaw has to be extracted, after hitting the concrete split the tooth into two pieces.

Claudia and Iulia change the bandages for her, and Livia patiently feeds Severina broth spoonful by spoonful. It’s Decima who bathes Severina, and Servilia who brushes and braids her hair so it doesn’t get tangled. 

None of them talk about Atia. 

Eirene dresses Severina, helping her pull her arms through the short sleeves of her under-tunic. “I was a nurse before,” Eirene whispers, like it’s a secret she wants to keep. She gently tugs the tunic’s hem down Severina’s hips. 

Severina closes her eyes and wonders if one of the slaves would take a few pieces of jewelry in exchange for sneaking her some Med-X. It’s day nine and she can barely stand for more than fifteen minutes before she collapses. “This isn’t even the worst thing he’s ever done to me.”

“I watered her garden for you.” Eirene sits down gently on the edge of Severina’s bed, the mattress dipping. Her pale hands are gentle as she checks the bandages over Severina’s face for any sign of infection. 

Severina can feel her eyes burning with tears, so she squeezes her eyes closed even tighter. “Don’t do it again.” Her throat feels raw. 

“I brought you something, too.” Eirene must be fishing something out of the pocket bag she wears on a linen tape around her waist, because Severina can hear rustling and then something being shaken in a plastic bottle. “It’s not anything strong, but...” Eirene lets the sentence trail off.

Severina opens her eyes slowly. Eirene’s holding a container of ibuprofen, still sealed in its pre-war first aid kit packaging. 

“I found a kit hidden in part of the building they’re still working on,” Eirene murmurs, cracking the pill bottle’s plastic seal. She shakes two of the small orange tablets into her palm and offers them to Severina with a little smile. 

Severina swallows the pills down with a sip of water from her bedside glass. It’s not exactly Med-X, but it’s better than nothing. She settles back onto her pillow with a sigh. “Thank you,” she whispers. There will probably be a price to pay for this later on, Severina knows. Nobody does anything for free. That, however, is a problem for her to deal with in the future. 

For right now, she lets Eirene pull her blankets up and tuck the bottle of pills between the mattress and bedframe. 

* * *

“Why don’t you go see Lanius’s wife?” Caesar says. He rubs at Severina’s bruised jaw with just enough force for it to still hurt. “You always visit new officer’s wives in Flagstaff in their first month of marriage, don’t you?” 

Severina smiles placidly as she eats another bite of her stew, keeping eye contact with Caesar across the table. “You would allow me?” 

“What? Your cunt still too torn up to walk?” Caesar laughs and pulls his hand away from Severina’s face. He takes another gulp of wine. 

“Oh, I’m perfectly healed. No lasting damage at all.” Severina’s expression doesn’t slip at all. She’s better now, than ever before. If she thought she had nothing to lose before, she has even less now. 

Atia’s garden has shrivelled in the weather of the early autumn. For the past three weeks, Severina has watched as the last of its blooms browned and died.

“If you fuck her again, let me watch.” Caesar leers over the rim of his wine glass. “Was she good at it?” 

Severina gathers another spoonful of her meal. “If it’s any consolation, Caesar Imperator, your cock is still bigger than hers.” 

*

Lanius’s villa is just across the road from Palatine Hill. It’s a brick house that might once have housed a university professor, but now has been rebuilt for the second of Caesar’s most trusted Legates. The building itself is painted white, with the red Legion standard flying proudly in the yard. A housekeeping slave answers the door when Severina knocks. 

At least one rumor about the Legate is true: all the slaves that Severina meets in Lanius’s house have been blinded, eyes glazed over with cataracts. The housekeeper, Fortuna, guides Severina into the sitting room by feeling her way along the hallway’s walls until they reach the large, open space. Lanius’s rooms are sparsely furnished, and there’s no decoration at all. It wasn’t as though the Legate spent much time in Flagstaff, Severina supposed, and his blind servants didn’t care what color the walls were. The windows, too, were all covered by heavy fabric drapes and wooden shutters. It’s barely light enough inside the house for Severina to walk without worrying about tripping over her own feet. 

Fortuna manages to get a tray of tea and honey cakes out on the sitting room table by the time a maid enters the room, holding a pallid hand that lurks in the shadows of the dark hallway. “Severina Augusta,” the maid whispers, bowing her head. 

“Come in,” Severina coaxes. Lower-ranking women weren’t, technically, allowed in the presence of an Augusta Marita until she acknowledged them. “Have a seat, please, don’t be formal.” 

Slowly, Atia emerges from the shadows. Severina swallows down the instinctive gasp she lets out at seeing Atia. 

Scabs and pink scar tissue marr the tops of Atia’s high cheekbones, and thick white gauze has been wrapped carefully over her eyes to hide what must have been the worst of the damage done. There’s a deep indigo bruise around her neck, like someone had tried to strangle her. “Hello,” Atia rasps out at last, hands outstretched as Fortuna guides her to the chair opposite Severina. 

There is a faint tinge of guilt in Severina’s core. She did this. Every choice she ever made has culminated in this, in the ruin of the only woman Severina has ever cared about. For how many years did Severina unknowingly set the precedent for how officers could treat their wives? How many years did she let go by without understanding that one day, it wouldn’t just be a way to save her own life as a concubine? She personally codified this entire system of wives, whores, and holy women into existence.

Maybe a month ago, like in the darkness of Caesar’s throne room as Severina tried to stand up for once in her entire life against the evil she sees every day, the idea might have truly sickened her. She might have wanted to kill Lanius, or Caesar, or even herself. She might have had shame. 

Now, it’s not quite enough to crack the facade she’s carefully carved around herself. Just lie back and think of England. Think of the days ahead. Think of staying alive. Think of every dead woman rotting in a ditch in the fucking desert because she didn’t keep her head down. 

“How are you?” Severina can’t bring herself to look at Atia’s face. The tea cake she’s picked up from the dingy silver tray is stale enough that it crumbles between Severina’s fingers without much effort. She listlessly takes a bite and sets the cake back down on her saucer. None of the Legate’s dishes matched. 

Atia’s pale fingers curl into her lap, into the red folds of her tunic. There’s brown-dried blood under her nails, Severina notes dully, defensive marks. “When I talked to you about winter, how you stay out in the cold, do you remember that?”

“How could I forget?” It’s said with the barest bite of sarcasm, because as much as Severina hates cliches it’s true: the heavy smell of flowers, the desert night, the sickly sweetened wine, pushing Atia away.

“I understand. The cold is... different. There is no fire left.” Atia’s shoulders shake a little. 

“You get used to it.” It’s a lie. The fact that Severina is sitting here, talking to Atia, is proof enough of that. 

Atia’s face twitches, like she wants to say something but can’t bring herself to actually speak. “Did you mean those things? What you said, all those nights?” she whispers.

Life offers Severina a choice, for the first time in decades. There’s Atia, with her bandaged eyes and shaking hands, who wants to be loved, who wants Severina’s reassurance that when Severina had said she loved her it was genuine. There’s stupid daydreams of escape plans or finding ways to be together that will never end well. 

Or there’s the reality that Severina has built for herself, where she won’t look back on her own life for fear of seeing the human cost of her own life. She was never special in any significant way, never more clever or more beautiful or more worthy than any of the other women, just more desperate to stay alive. 

Esperanza Magro was always a coward.

“No,” Severina eventually answers. “I just wanted a friend.” Atia can’t see how badly Severina’s mask is cracking with the weight of her own lies.

Severina expects Atia to cry, to scream, to protest. She does not expect the younger woman to sit up straighter in her seat and give a curt nod. 

“I think you should leave, Severina Augusta,” Atia says quietly. “The day is getting late.”

_ “Gloria ad Caesarem Imperatorem, Atia Lanii.” _ Severina rises to her feet quickly and makes her way to the door, not bothering to wait for Fortuna to guide her.

_ “Gloria ad Severinam Augustam.” _ There’s a creeping spite to the way Atia says it. Severina doesn’t turn back to see if the expression on Atia’s face matches. 

Severina Augusta is not just a coward, unlike Esperanza. 

She was a selfish one. 

* * *

_ October _

October begins the rainy season. The courtyard floods, desert mud unable to handle how quickly the rain falls. The flowers in the garden get drowned in the downpour.

Severina deliberately avoids thinking of it as an omen.

She’s seen women die before, seen their bodies discarded like garbage because at the end of the day, women were merely objects for the Legion’s men. When a woman was used up, she was disposed of. Wives, whores, it didn’t matter. They all would end up in a shallow mass grave or stacked in a pyre.

The first had been Tullia. There was an infection in her lungs, blood in the spittle she coughed up constantly, but Caesar saw no point in wasting medical resources on a whore. Severina, seventeen and still afraid, didn’t dare to go against his orders. She held Tullia’s shivering body until Tullia stopped moving altogether, her last breath a painful sounding wheeze. 

Seeing death never got easier. Severina thought it might, at first, that she could somehow get used to the horrible spectacle of death and no longer be bothered by it. It never happened. Twenty-one women didn’t survive Caesar, and Severina can remember every single one of their deaths. She can recall every feature of the masks that death distorted their faces into. 

The space where Atia once planted flowers is now indistinguishable from the rest of the courtyard. The last day of October comes in yet another dreary, rainy day, but the atmosphere is different. Severina can feel it from the moment she wakes up. The slaves don’t talk to her at all, avoid meeting any eye contact she tries to hold as they help dress her for the day.

Eirene is pacing along the center of the hallway outside her rooms, waiting for Severina. “What’s going on?” Severina asks, immediately put off. 

Eirene looks at Severina with an expression that’s somewhere between fear and grief. “Atia Lanii is dead,” Eirene whispers. 

For a second, Severina can’t quite process what Eirene means. She blinks at the other woman. “Excuse me?”

“I know you and Atia were close, I didn’t want Caesar to tell you first--”

Severina shakes her head, silencing Eirene. “Atia is dead?” The words don’t make any more sense when she’s said them aloud herself. There’s a thudding sensation in her heart. 

“I’m sorry,” Eirene says quietly.

Severina doesn’t even bother putting shoes or her palla on as she races to the front door, ignoring Eirene’s attempts at holding her back and pleas for Severina to stay inside.

There’s no sign that it’s anything but a normal October morning outside. The rain is little more than a chilly drizzle, and slaves scurry up and down the road on errands. Severina’s out of breath by the time she makes it to the whitewashed brick of Legate Lanius’s house, palla hanging off one shoulder and road-mud caking her shoes. 

It takes a few minutes for what she sees in the yard to make sense. 

There’s a bundle of stained white sheets sitting in the center, and Fortuna is sitting cross-legged beside it, waiting for someone. “Are you the city guard?” Fortuna asks, waving in Severina’s direction. “I brought the body out for the pyre cart.” 

It’s not a bundle of sheets. Severina thinks she’ll be sick, suddenly, her brain finally connecting the sights with its meaning. Atia’s face has been left out of her makeshift shroud, milky cataract-covered eyes staring up at nothing. A gash deep enough to reveal white bone covers her left temple, blood caking in her blond hair. 

Severina falls to her knees in the muddy path, hands clamped over her mouth as a hysteric laugh bubbles out of her throat. Another woman, disposed of by the Legion, made into garbage to be carried off to a pyre like her life never mattered. “I’m sorry,” Severina chokes out, digging a hand into the dirt as if to ground herself in reality. She closes her eyes, but she can still see Atia’s death mask perfectly behind her eyelids. “I’m sorry.”

“We have to go.” There’s someone tugging at Severina’s shoulder, a clammy hand wrapped around her upper arm. “Severina, we have to go.” 

Severina wrenches herself free, stumbling to her feet in the mud without bothering to see who grabbed her. “I did this.”

It’s Eirene again, looking desperate, hands spread apart like she’s trying to soothe a frightened animal. “Please, Severina, we have to go, you’ll make a scene.” 

Severina wipes at her face, uncaring that the action smears mud across her cheek. “I did this,” she repeats, quieter. “I did this.” 

Eirene finally just grabs her forearm again and half-drags Severina back across the road, up the stairs, down the hallway, to her bedroom. A trail of mud and rain follows Severina, dragged in from her soaked clothing, and the sight makes Severina laugh. 

“Glory to fucking Caesar, Eirene,” Severina says, raising her hand in a mock salute. “Glory to fucking Caesar.”

**Author's Note:**

> Content Warnings:  
> There are references to off-screen sexual assault and rape. It isn't graphic nor is it described in detail.  
> The Legion is an evil faction, full of very bad people. This fic is full of misogyny, including sex slavery, human trafficking, and domestic violence. A woman does die due to domestic violence, which is off-screen and not described. The women in question are sex slaves, and there is fundamentally a consent issue. However, the mildly spicy R-rated sexy scene is between two women and is consensual. I repeat, there is no on-screen sexual violence, only references and "aftermaths" for lack of a better term. 
> 
> This fic is dedicated to PomoneCorse, who so graciously allows me just to shove my OCs into her universes with reckless abandon.


End file.
